


IDIC

by Sealie



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-11
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 15:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sealie/pseuds/Sealie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Warnings: </b> language; cultural <i>faux pas</i>; ignorance and use of humour to throw light on but not detract from the importance of the topic.</p><p><b>Acknowledgements: </b> I threw down the first draft and sent it off to beth_green who has a rich background in cultural biodiversity. Subsequently, I wrestled with the story a little more and then roped in klostes to beta, help me with the blocking and add another viewpoint. Two mates who have experience in human resources gave me their two pennyworths. And finally -- the icing on the cake – tovalentin went over the fic with a fine toothcomb and offered cogent advice.</p><p>All that being said: any errors and clangers are mine.</p><div class="center">
<br/><i>It is a matter of the Women of Athos. </i>
<br/></div>
    </blockquote>





	IDIC

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** language; cultural _faux pas_ ; ignorance and use of humour to throw light on but not detract from the importance of the topic.
> 
>  **Acknowledgements:** I threw down the first draft and sent it off to beth_green who has a rich background in cultural biodiversity. Subsequently, I wrestled with the story a little more and then roped in klostes to beta, help me with the blocking and add another viewpoint. Two mates who have experience in human resources gave me their two pennyworths. And finally -- the icing on the cake – tovalentin went over the fic with a fine toothcomb and offered cogent advice.
> 
> All that being said: any errors and clangers are mine.
> 
>   
> _It is a matter of the Women of Athos._   
> 

**IDIC.**   
By sealie 

The concussive blast took John totally by surprise. The curl of the explosion sent him skywards, but gravity smacked him to earth, or rather, to be precise, to water. Flying without the benefit of wings sucked.

The switch from air to water was from chaos to silence. A rush of air bubbles surged around him as he plummeted, chunks of Atlantis brushing past him en route to the oceanic depths.

‘Oh,’ John thought distantly, ‘Rodney’s going to be pissed.’

It was getting darker. There was a twisting shape silhouetted against fractured sunlight above him.

‘Fish? Shark?’ he wondered absently, passing through the weight of water as if slipping under a blanket. His eyes slid closed; it was too easy to relax into near-sleep.

He forced his eyes open, and Teyla resolved into view. Grim with determination, she surged up against him. Her hands tangled in his vest straps, black fabric entwining around her fingers, wrists and arms and then they were rising, rising, rising. She was never going to let them go.

John tried to kick, to help them rise. The darkness was encroaching--

“Breathe, Major! Breathe!” a shrieking voice demanded like a nail driving into his temple. “His lips are blue!”

He opened his eyes. All he could see was black dotted with starlight. A comet dropped and splashed in his left eye. There was an impersonal sensation of a mouth over his lips. The urge to cough was irresistible. He curled into it. The fall of starlight backed away and harsh, crystal sunlight blinded him. Coughing and coughing, he rolled onto his side as his lungs awoke. He couldn’t draw in enough air.

“John, John! Try to control your breathing.”

A hand rubbed along his back vigorously.

John could only cough as his back spasmed. There was only one sensation: air and its demand. Giving into its command hurt, but it was the only thing in the world. Somehow, somewhere, there was finally enough air. John sagged against the cold deck plates for just a heartbeat--

Finally, he rolled onto his back. “Are you guys okay?” he croaked. “Ford?”

“Sir.” The lieutenant dropped to his knees at John’s side.

“I didn’t--” he coughed, “--see you. Sitrep?”

“It blew up, sir. It was awesome.”

“The entire installation collapsed in on itself. There was no sign that it was that unstable!” Rodney yelled, and then, like mercury rolling over an uneven surface, he switched track. “Are you okay?”

“The pier’s blocked,” Ford continued, “we won’t be getting out that way. They’ll have to send a puddlejumper.”

John struggled up onto one elbow and reached for his earpiece, but it was long gone. He checked his team again. High up on Rodney’s hairline was a cut, and blood trickled along his temple and down to his sideburn. Incredibly, he didn’t seem to have noticed. Ford was dusty from head to waist. His trousers were wet, probably from pulling him out of the water.

Rodney tapped at his earpiece. “Control? Tower?”

“They’re probably on their way,” John noted. Abdomen clamouring, he sat up straighter, feeling like he had been sidelined by a linebacker.

“A moment, please,” Teyla interjected, and John looked at her for the first time in what felt like ever.

She flushed a darker shade, bringing a hand up to her tightly curled, black ringlets. Water droplets caught in the strands sparkled in the Atlantean sun.

“Oh, is that your natural hair?” Rodney asked directly. “I’d wondered.”

John glanced at Rodney and back to Teyla and then back to Rodney, who had his head cocked to the side, scientist expression of catalogue and classify in place.

John looked fleetingly at the water, for, he realised, futilely, a wig. Huh?

“Please, it is not--” Teyla breathed out sharply, “--appropriate for my hair to be seen.”

“Really? It’s real pretty,” Ford said ingenuously.

“Thank you,” Teyla said through pursed lips. Shifting backwards a step, she moved into the broken shade cast by the destroyed building.

The distinctive whine of a puddlejumper’s engine filled the air.

“Your hat.” Rodney clicked his fingers at Ford. Click. Click-clicky click. “Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.”

“What?” Ford asked.

“Hat!” Rodney plucked it from Ford’s head and tossed it at Teyla.

“Thank you.” She leaned over, knotting her hair into a loose bun on the top of her head and pulling the cap on. As she straightened, wispy black-brown hair escaped to curl at her nape.

The puddlejumper descended, turning on its axis to land on the pier. As the back ramp descended Carson was jumping out, massive med kit in hand and an assistant at his heels.

“Any injuries?” he asked, even as he beetled over to John’s side.

Half-heartedly, John realised that he was in for a lot of poking and prodding because he hadn’t made it to his feet.

“He almost drowned!” Rodney’s finger jabbed in his direction. “Teyla had to give him the kiss of life.”

“I’m fine.” John pushed Carson’s questing hands away. “Look at Rodney, he’s bleeding.”

“What? Bleeding?” Rodney quickly scanned the length of his body, checked the back of his hands and then the palms. “Where? Where?”

~*~

The infirmary floor was less than interesting, but it was easier to lie still on the padded mattress and surf the cocktail of anti-inflammatory painkillers and muscle relaxants that Carson had foisted on him. Tomorrow he was going to feel the burn, but not now. Medieval Carson had prescribed a rotating combination of ice and heat to make tomorrow slightly more tolerable. The impact with the water had both seriously winded him (which had meant that he had not inhaled any water, so that was a win) and bruised his back from shoulder blades to butt.

He was currently face down, head propped in a padded hole in the mattress so he could breathe and lie straight. Carson had the weirdest things in his infirmary. The heat was kind of nice, though.

“I don’t get it. I like your hair,” Ford was saying -- it broke John’s nascent doze.

Teeth gritted, he pushed up off the mattress rolling on to his side. Both younger team members were still damp, evidently having only just been released by the medics. Ford had his hands tucked deep in his BDU pockets, for once relaxed and at ease before his CO. Teyla still wore Ford’s cap pulled down low, covering her hair. A blanket was draped around her shoulders, folds bunching around her neck.

“How are you guys?” he asked.

“We are fine, Major,” Teyla returned soberly. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good.” John knew that his smile was loopy. “The meds are kicking in.”

“I wouldn’t talk to the major; look at that smile.” Rodney stalked up behind his team members. There was a butterfly stitch closing the cut on his head and dark bruising was discolouring his hair line.

“Ah, Dr. McKay, it is good to see that you are well,” Teyla said. “If you will excuse me, I need to go to my— to change. I will return your cap soon, Aiden.”

“No hurry--” Ford said, but it was to her retreating back.

John reached out with a wavering finger, trying to map the route of her darting exit. He could see an eddying track in the air. Painkillers had some funky side effects.

McKay huffed a laugh. “What has Carson given you? How badly did you hurt your back?”

“How’s the head?” John asked deflecting that question.

“Carson wouldn’t give me an fMRI.” Rodney scowled. “He doesn’t appreciate the vast resource--”

 _‘Vast resource?’_ Ford mouthed.

“--that my intellect is to this expedition. I could be bleeding in my brain!”

“You’re no bleeding in your brain,” Carson hollered across the ward. “You needed one wee little stitch.”

“Hippocratic oath, my ass,” Rodney growled, scowling over his shoulder at the puttering doctor.

“I heard that.” Carson tossed a wad of soiled cotton wool in the biological materials waste bin. He turned and pointed at the door. “Now, you lot, get out of my infirmary and let the major rest. You can come back and torment him at tea time.”

“Tea time?” Rodney questioned.

“You know fine well what I’m talking about, Rodney McKay. Go and come back at dinner!”

His two team members chose discretion as the better part of valour and escaped. John hoped that they would return with jello.

~*~

“They’re keeping you overnight?” Rodney said over John’s head.

“You bring jello?” John asked the floor through the massage mattress headspace.

“It occurs to me that you can’t eat lying on your stomach.” There was the distinct slick-tear of an opening plastic lid.

“Hey, that’s mine.”

By the time he had managed to turn onto his side, Rodney was halfway through his tub of dessert.

“McKay,” John made a point of drawling out the ‘ay.’

Unrepentant, McKay happily licked the spoon. Tongue occupied, he mumbled, “overnight?”

“No, there another round of torture in a couple of hours, then Beckett says I can escape.” The switch between hot and cold was agonising, but only for a short time, and prevention was better than cure. Tomorrow might not be as bad as he had anticipated. “What triggered the blast?”

Rodney snorted. “Decayed sea monster thing. Somehow it swam its way into an energy manifold flue when Atlantis was underwater. It probably became caught in the conversion processor, decayed in a reduced-oxygen atmosphere, sulphide and hydrogen gas were released. We opened the door. Tech responded to our presence. Spark. Boom.”

“How much of that is speculation?” he asked, because that sounded rather wild.

“A bunch of your Marines have been crawling over the site with my scientists. Trying to find explosives or if the decaying thing was leaking C4.”

“Alien explosive shit?”

Rodney’s mobile mouth twisted in a smile. “Once the microbiologists joined in the speculation was rife -- mutant archaea bacteria. But I’ve been over the area with sensors and there’s no evidence of manufactured explosives and there’s evidence that the infrastructure was compromised, probably by the rising. It looks like ‘Major Sheppard was almost killed by a pile of noxious sludge’ is going into the report.”

John rubbed his forehead.

“It could be worse. They could have gone with the explosive shit angle,” Rodney said conversationally.

“How’s Teyla?”

“Teyla? Teyla’s fine. You were the one who opened the installation door. Teyla was on the other side of the pier.”

“I meant the--” John plucked at his own hair.

“The wig?” Rodney clarified.

“Yeah, how did you know?”

“That she wears a wig? I’m a genius. How did you not know?”

“McKay, you don’t notice that kind of stuff.”

“Obviously, I do. Don’t:” Rodney extended one finger. “Ask fat women if they’re pregnant.” Another finger followed. “Ask women their age. Ask women why they wear veils, headdresses, frumpy mono-coloured dresses that do nothing for their figure.”

John choked on a laugh. “There’s a whole wealth of stories there.”

Amazingly, Rodney went inscrutable.

“McKay?” John said astounded.

“I have a sister. She told me the rules. Okay, around the delectable Samantha Carter, I kind of forg -- we’d make beautiful, intelligent babies. My genes should continue for the benefit of humanity. Those pert boo--”

“McKay.”

McKay cocked his head to the side, lost in fantasy.

“You’re a pig, McKay.”

“But a surprisingly observant one, unlike you,” McKay pointed out. “All men are pigs, according to most women I’ve tried to date.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“About what?”

“Teyla?”

“Teyla’s fine. Didn’t we have this conversation?”

“No, about the--” John pointed at his head again.

“Why?” Rodney asked, mystified.

Why indeed, John wondered, flopping back onto his stomach. Because Teyla had looked so… _hurt_. It must be the meds; he couldn’t believe he was thinking about this.

~*~

The train chugged down the hill, slowing as it approached Atlantis Station. Rodney was poking at the stop button, finger jabbing, alarm chiming, again and again. John opened his eyes, ringing interweaved in his dreams.

Automatically, he brushed at his ear -- no earpiece; he was off duty. It was his door chiming.

He tried to sit up and was sidelined by the violent protest of strained muscles.

“Oh, fuck.” He dropped back and could only breathe.

“Major?” His door swished open and Teyla’s voice was sharp with concern. “Are you all right?”

“Bleee,” John managed.

“Shall I call Dr. Beckett?” She leaned over him, scanning his face. The tassels of a long scarf carefully wrapped around her head batted his nose. Instinctively, his eyes tracked the sway of the wave of light blue tassels. She had to have something like three scarves wrapped around her head.

“No,” John said and it was embarrassingly squeaky. “Give me a minute. I just moved too quick.”

He knew the pain of strained and overextended muscles. A hot shower was the order of the day.

“May I?” Teyla was saying as she moved away. He didn’t have a clue what she was doing near his bedside unit, so he just let her get on with it. “I have the medication which Dr. Beckett prescribed. They are painkillers and muscle relaxants, I believe. Can you take them on an empty stomach?”

“Yeah,” John said concisely. He lifted his arm, keeping his elbow tucked against his side. It wasn’t a smooth move.

Eyebrow raised in disquiet, Teyla hesitated in passing over the tablets. “Perhaps I should call Dr. Beckett?”

“No,” Teeth gritted, he rolled onto his side, minimising the use of stomach and back muscles, and then used his elbow to lever himself upright.

The eyebrow rose higher. John looked at his bare, hairy knees and brought them closer together. Mutely, he held out his hand.

She dropped them on his palm. “I will get you a glass of water.”

As she swished over to his bathroom, John used the moment to curl up a little more, minimising necessary movement to get the tablets into his mouth. He crunched them dry and swallowed.

“I apologise for disturbing you, John. I thought that you would be awake and then when I heard you call out I had to investigate,” Teyla called from the bathroom.

“Hey, it’s okay.” John chased a fragment of something nasty-tasting around his teeth with his tongue. “I needed to get up anyway. Er, what can I do for you?”

Teyla padded back into the living area. It was the first time that she had been in his rooms. He pulled his t-shirt a little bit further over his lap. The excruciating agony of moving had killed any chance of morning wood, but sitting before Teyla in creased t-shirt and boxers with, no doubt, amazing bedhead, was a new, uncomfortable experience.

“I had hoped that you could ferry me over to the Athosian settlement this morning…” Holding the glass in her clenched hands she stood stock still, dead centre in his room, as near to the door as she was to him.

“Ah.” John swallowed dryly, the taste of the meds sharp. “I won’t be cleared by medical for at least twenty-four hours after my last dose.”

“That is understandable.”

John could see himself reflected in her liquid eyes, small and scrunched up. He leaned arthritically, reaching for his earpiece on his bedside table.

“Stackhouse and Markham can take you.”

“Would it,” Teyla said slowly, “be possible for Rodney to pilot me to the mainland?”

“Rodney?” John checked stupidly. “McKay? I guess. He needs more practise.”

Teyla took a measured sip from his glass of water.

John switched the comm. base unit to the private channel and tapped the mike open. “McKay?”

“What?” Rodney’s immediate response was waspish.

“Flight time, you need to practice.” He glanced at the clock beside his bed. “Meet us in the ‘jumper bay in two hours.”

“Us?” At the prospect of flying there was a fillip of eagerness in his voice.

“Yeah, Teyla’s coming with.”

“Fine. Leave me alone now; I’m busy.” Rodney clicked off.

John flashed a smile at Teyla. She inclined her head, “Thank you.”

“No problem. Um, okay. I need a shower now.” He glanced at the en suite. He didn’t actually want to try standing until Teyla had left, because he guessed that crawling, or at least Quasimodo lurching, was in his future.

Teyla read his mind. “I will leave you to your ablutions. The commissary will finish serving breakfast very soon. I will bring a tray to your room.”

“Coffee?” John said hopefully.

“A carafe,” Teyla said as a thank you.

He waited until she left before taking the Notre Dame route to the bathroom.

~*~

Standing in a shower under water hotter than Hades for over forty-five minutes had done a lot to improve John’s mobility. His t-shirt and shorts were now hanging over the shower head drying because he had spent the first twenty minutes simply leaning against the tiles under the spray. The thermos of coffee when he had emerged had been a godsend.

John managed a reasonable facsimile of his normal walk into the hanger. Rodney was all eager anticipation, rocking up and down on his heels outside ‘jumper three. The other bays were empty, their occupants out on missions, but Rodney had obviously thought ahead and requested John’s favourite, most responsive ‘jumper.

Ford, unlike Rodney, was prepped for duty: BDUs and tac vest. The young lieutenant cocked his head in a “what’s the mission, sir” question but didn’t ask.

“We’re just taking a little hop over to the mainland. Practise for Rodney. And Teyla wants to go,” John said.

“Well, where is she?” Rodney scanned the hanger, as if he could have missed her entrance.

“Coming.” John stroked a hand along the retracted drive pod as he moved around to the stern. ‘Hey baby, Rodney’s going to be piloting you today. You have to take him to the Athosians.’ By actively going out as a flight instructor under the influence of drugs he was not obeying the letter of the law, but the ‘jumper could fly itself to the settlement and back. It knew the route.

Teyla’s entrance was an Entrance. John scratched his head; she was all turquoise, shimmering blue and _drapey_ from covered head to the tips of her toes. Vaguely, he realised that something was up. Bells at her wrists chimed as she crossed the hanger.

“Thank you for coming, Aiden.” She inclined her head.

Ford clutched his P90 to his chest.

“Oh, shit,” Rodney said inexplicably. “There’s going to be a ritual, isn’t there.”

~*~

The weird thing going through John’s head was that turquoise didn’t really suit Teyla. Orange, russet brown, red or even green would look better. John gritted his teeth and checked the HUD again. The puddlejumper was being more helpful than usual, and Rodney had managed a straight-ish line.

Perhaps when they got to the settlement, they could just kick Teyla out and make a run for it.

“I don’t get it,” Ford said. “Your real hair’s much prettier.”

Turning arthritically, putting his whole body into it, John spun the chair around to better see Teyla sitting directly behind him. She was as close to sighing as he had ever seen her. Ford, John got, was like a vinyl record and a stuck needle -- young and focused on one thing.

“Lieutenant,” John said, “you’ve had the cultural seminars from Dr. Jackson before coming to Pegasus. I know that marines get training before they’re deployed. Let it rest.”

“Come on, Ford, even in whatever backwater hamlet you grew up in you must have had television!” Rodney jabbed at the puddlejumper’s consol buttons. “Don't try and tell me you've never seen a turban when you were in Afghanistan.”

“Yeah, but it’s a wig. I didn’t know that Teyla wore a wig.” Ford sagged back in his seat, expression befuddled.

“Lots of people wear wigs.” Rodney snorted. “You know the scary thing here? It’s that I have the best grasp of the situation.”

“Really?” Teyla drew her legs up, the tails of her long tunic falling to the side. Her form fitting trousers were exactly the same shade as the coat. She curled her blue-wrapped toes over the edge of the seat as she clasped her knees against her chest. “Perhaps you would care to elaborate.”

Releasing the controls without a thought, Rodney spun his chair around. Mentally, John asked for the automatic pilot to engage. He was tempted to eat his entire bottle of pain meds. Anything to avoid this.

“Okay. One question, before I educate Ford.”

“McKay.” John shook his head. He knew Rodney’s questions; they could easily border on the obscene.

“Your question?” Teyla pursed her lips.

“Who can see your natural hair?”

Teyla’s chin came up as she contemplated Rodney.

He blushed under her regard. “Without causing you offence and embarrassment?”

“The person who I chose to spend my life with and, assuming that she was alive, my mother,” Teyla finally answered.

“Excellent.” Rodney jabbed his finger at Ford. “Do you have a sister? Someone that you think of as a sister?”

“My cousin,” he hazarded. “We grew up together.”

“So, hot summer day. Your cousin’s wearing a t-shirt and your best friend throws a bucket of water at her. You can see her tits--”

“McKay!” Sheppard yelped.

“What would you do, Ford? What would you do? He’s leering at her. Making comments.”

“I give her a towel and then beat the shit out of him.”

“Ha! See.” The puddlejumper made a ping indicating a course correction. Rodney turned back to the controls. John left the automatic pilot on as a matter of spite.

“But… but… Teyla,” Ford spluttered. “It’s hair.”

Rodney abandoned the (non-responsive) controls and spun the chair back to face his team mates. “You are without fail--”

“Allow me, Rodney,” Teyla said sharply, holding out a hand stopping Rodney’s rant dead. “Aiden, for you to accidentally see my hair is as if you glimpsed your cousin in the shower. For you to request to see and speculate on my hair is as if you deliberately strove to spy on your cousin in her shower.”

Ford’s mouth fell open and he flushed darker.

“Now do you get it?” Rodney said archly. “Hair, ankles, frilly underpants, all the same thing -- even if they don’t make sense. Are you going to release the controls, Major?”

John shuffled down in the seat. The HUD popped up, displaying the local schematic against the backdrop of clear, blue sky. “Hey, settlement. Almost there,” he said brightly.

~*~

Teyla was whisked away by a bevy of aged crones, leaving her team members standing forlornly in the centre square by the large communal cooking fire. A number of pots were slow-cooking as part of the midday meal. John glanced longingly at the ‘jumper, half sliding towards the lowered hatch. Rodney was dogging his heels.

“Ah, Major Sheppard.” Halling sauntered over a wide-bottomed bottle of _ruus_ wine in one hand and four carved wooden goblets in the other.

‘Meds plus alcohol equals no pain,’ John thought. “Hi, Halling.”

“Major Sheppard.” Halling extended a goblet.

“Thank you.” John snatched.

“Yes, definitely.” Rodney held out his hand.

“Hey, you’re the designated driver,” John said with no amount of glee. “No _ruus_ for you. Hey, that rhymes.”

Rodney glowered. “Excuse me.” He stalked off into the puddlejumper.

John held out the goblet and waggled it enticingly. “How’s the beer brewing going?”

Worriedly, Halling peered after Rodney even as he poured a generous dose of scarlet wine. “What is he doing?”

“I’m telling Elizabeth that we’re staying the night!” Rodney hollered.

“Oh!” Ford said. “I guess, I’m off duty then.”

“Awesome.” John gave Aiden his goblet and snagged another off Halling.

~*~

“Hey, it’s kind of sad that we need alcohol to cope with this,” John said loquaciously.

They had taken refuge by Halling’s tent, under the summer awning. The community puttered around them, wood smoke and appetizing scents of cooking food heralding the midday meal, which actually looked like it was spontaneously evolving into a midday-to-evening banquet extravaganza.

“ _Cultural_ differences?” Rodney leaned back in his pile of cushions. “I don’t believe I’m saying this: but I wish that Daniel Jackson was here.”

“I never knew Teyla wore a wig.” John looked for answers in his goblet, as if scrying.

Halling peered at them across the small wrought iron stove that provided both a centre point to his favourite sitting area and kept his tea warm and stewed.

“All of caste of the House of Emmagan cover their heads,” Halling said slowly, explaining, but also hunting for understanding in a sea of confusion.

“We didn’t know, though,” Ford blurted and then shifted on his floor cushion, embarrassed.

“Ah?” Halling cogitated, as two points of high colour bloomed on his cheeks. “It is a matter of the Women of Athos. Uhm…. It is not unusual.”

‘Hang on,’ John thought. ‘Why is it a problem? It’s not a problem? Huh….’

Rodney knocked back a mouthful of wine. “Teyla can probably explain it better.”

John nodded in agreement in the face of Halling’s confusion.

“Ankles,” Rodney didn’t explain. “It’s all about ankles and there’s nothing even remotely interesting about ankles.”

“Ankles?” Halling double checked.

“Ankles,” Rodney confirmed seriously.

“But we don’t… uhm…. want to… upset Teyla.” John circled the issue like a medevac chopper scoping out a landing site in uneven terrain.

“I think we did that already,” Ford said.

“Except McKay.” John shook his head.

“How are you so understanding?” Ford asked Rodney querulously. “I mean, you’re you.”

“I was brought up,” Rodney said sanctimoniously, “on Star Trek. Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations.”

“Yeah, but,” John grumbled, “even if you know the rules, you don’t understand the meaning.”

“Doesn’t invalidate the rule.” Rodney held out his mug for a refill.

“Man,” John said blearily, “why does Teyla put up with us?”

~*~

The Athosians were incredible hosts, with structured menus served to specific seasons. The move from spring into dry mid-spring (as predicted by the climatologists on Atlantis cribbing off the main AI computer mainframe) heralded dishes geared to the sweeter side of the palate.

John could hear Rodney humming contentedly under his breath as he tucked in to a dish which was reminiscent of korma curry. The complementing heavy breads filled with vine fruits were perfect with _ruus_ wine. Somnolent, John sagged a little deeper in his back rest of piled cushions. This had to be the most comfortable way to surf past the aches and strains of being blown across a pier and almost drowned. Carson would probably have a cow.

Jinto and Wex rushed past Halling’s tent squealing as they kicked a football. John perked up, following the arc of the ball. Wex had a good foot; evidently he had been practicing with the ball that the Marines had left in the settlement. On any other day, John would have chased after them. Today he was content to relax and watch sunlit dust motes hang on the air.

“Hmmph!” The disapproving nasal stop disturbed their lolling about.

Charin, Teyla’s adoptive grandmother (John guessed), eyed them as she hobbled under the awning.

“Ma’am!” Ford was on his feet in an instant. “Can we help you?”

Charin used her staff to beat a couple of floor cushions into submission. “You can get me a mug of that wine.”

Halling obediently poured out a generous measure. The wise woman settled her arthritic bones onto the cushions with Ford’s careful help. Wincing in sympathy, John straightened up in his own nest.

“Still hurting?” Charin observed.

“Yes, ma’am.” John answered; evidently Teyla had been talking about him. He wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that.

Halling scuttled to her side, circling around the cooking fire, to present her with the over-filled goblet.

“Thank you, Halling.” She raised an imperious eyebrow.

“I’ll be checking on Jeub, see if he’s found that source of clay he was hunting for.” His escape was gauche, but for a tall, lanky man he could move surprisingly fast.

John set his plate aside wishing for a glass of water. Charin regarded him over the rim of her goblet as she sipped. This was, John realised, uncomfortably like being taken before his first headmistress at boarding school. Although alcohol hadn’t featured in those meetings -- he had only been six.

Someone had to break first.

“Is Teyla joining us?” he asked circumspectly.

“Is she okay?” Ford blurted.

Rodney stole a figgish roll from John’s plate.

“McKay!”

Rodney licked a dusting of sherbet off his fingers.

“Boys!” Charin tapped her staff sharply against the ironwork holding the tea pot over the fire.

They froze, waiting her to speak.

“So you can be polite, can you, hmmph? So you’re Teyla’s team.”

It wasn’t really a question. This experience was rapidly morphing into a re-enactment of his various meetings with his COs over his years spanning from zoomie to major.

“Yes, ma’am,” John confirmed when he realised that Ford had understandably yielded the floor to _his_ commanding officer, and Rodney had stuffed his fat face with two figgish rolls.

“Children, more like,” Charin said. “So why are you here?”

“Teyla needed a ride,” John responded instantly.

Charin waited for him to continue, as impassive as the Sphinx.

John, thankfully, had an instant of insight. He glanced upwards at the heavens. “And she wanted her team to bring her.” That she had not wanted anyone else to see her went unsaid.

“McKay thought that there might be a ritual,” Ford volunteered quickly and then scrunched down on his cushions.

“So you stayed?” Charin pursued.

John hoped from the bottom of his heart that there was not going to be a ritual. Although, given the way that Teyla had been met and whisked away by the grandmothers of the Athosian settlement, he was leaning towards any rituals being male-free. Thankfully.

“Teyla needs a ride h—back to Atlantis.”

Charin set her goblet aside. “So you stayed to be here for your ‘team member.’ But do you know what you’ve done wrong?”

John opted to remain quiet, because to be honest he had no clue where this was going.

“You are embarrassed. Major--” Charin’s gnarly finger pointed him out, “--you never realised that Teyla covered her hair. So you are embarrassed about that because you have been unobservant and you have missed something that is very important to Teyla. Lieutenant, you are embarrassed because you have had your nose rubbed into the fact that you are a little boy. Doctor, you should be embarrassed, just because you consider that our customs are irrelevant does not mean that they’re unimportant.”

“What!” Rodney demanded, spraying crumbs. “I’ve been _sensitive_. I knew that Teyla was upset.”

“You have no respect,” Charin said cuttingly. “You think that our customs are foolish and pointless.”

“So,” John interrupted an argument which would never reach a compromise, “we need to do what?”

“You need to apologise,” Charin said.

“But I’ve been good,” Rodney whined. “I shouldn’t have to apologise.”

“Suck it up,” Ford muttered.

“I think that she means that we all apologise,” John told them.

“And be sincere in your apologies,” Charin commanded. Imperiously, she held out her hand. Ford was there in a heartbeat, lending a hand to help her to her to feet. “You are good boys; you are merely naïve and woefully arrogant in your immaturity. These problems can be overcome.” She smacked her staff against the ground, testing the firmness of the carpeted floor before hobbling away.

Rodney scowled at John. “Why did you let that old harridan talk to us like that?”

“Because she’s right.” John flopped back onto his cushions. He splayed his hand over his eyes blocking out the bright, spring light. Man, they had said nothing about this at officer training school.

“I need more _ruus_ ,” Rodney announced.

“I think we’ve had enough,” Ford said.

“You are probably right,” Teyla’s voice was bright and filled with laughter.

John quickly opened his eyes. Teyla had changed into her normal off-work combination of russet brown and beige figure-hugging top and loose trousers. He peeked quickly, checking that indeed she wore a wig. It was a new style, shorter, and it -- well, he guessed -- suited her.

She raised an eyebrow at his consideration.

His other team members were no help, struck mute; too afraid to say anything lest it be considered offensive. Of course, Rodney broke first.

“I like it. It will be better in combat. I mean, it’s shorter. It won’t get in the way,” his voice petered off.

“You look pretty,” Ford said and then closed his mouth firmly.

“It’s flattering,” John managed, feebly.

Rodney of all people shot him an incredulous look. John glared back, using all his powers for evil to think loudly, ‘you didn’t do much better!’

Smoothly, Teyla sank onto a large cushion. She composed her folded hands on her knees.

It was now or never, John realised. Teyla would let them off because she was infinitely tolerant and understanding of people’s foibles. And that wasn’t right.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t know that you wore a--” John plucked at the top of his head.

“We call it a _ruqque_.”

“I just don’t notice that sort of thing.” John shuffled on his cushion. Dredging the bottom of a barrel of personal embarrassment, he continued, “you’re just you: Teyla. Teyla who’s on my team. And now I don’t know if can or should mention that you wear a _ruqque_. Should I? Can I?”

“You can compliment my hair. I will not be discomfited. And I know that you will not strive to see nor contemplate the nature of my _hair_.”

“I guess it’s my turn,” Ford said with an infinitesimal edge of sullen. “I’m sorry, Teyla. I am. Really, I didn’t know. It’s just I don’t get it. No, I do get it, now. It’s personal and it’s about your people and it’s private. And I shouldn’t have kept asking to see your real hair. And I’m sorry, real sorry.”

“Well, I had my ass roundly handed to me by your Charin,” Rodney said. His entire face visibly twisted as he tried to follow up that sentence. Finally, his mouth dropped, and he uttered, Canadian soft, “sorry.”

Teyla’s smile was soft and compassionate. “Thank you, my friends, I accept your apologies. I, too, was very uncomfortable. I was very embarrassed that you had seen me without my _ruqque_. It made it difficult to talk, to explain.”

“So does that mean that we’re fine? Everything is copasetic?” Rodney asked as he rolled a ball of bread into grimy sphere between his fingers.

Teyla’s measured gaze did not shift an iota.

“Okay, okay.” Rodney flicked the ball of bread onto the grass beyond their lounging area. He held his hands high in the surrender position “I have to know. I have to ask why the wig? Okay, I can ask this, can’t I? I’m not trying to be obnoxious.”

“That comes naturally,” John inserted.

“So?” Intent, Rodney leaned forwards, ignoring John’s jibe.

“I am the hereditary leader of my people. My mother, Tagan, led the Athosians before me and my grandmother before her. Our line stretches back to the memory of the Ancestors when they walked among us. I lead my people. I am the voice of my people. I am the arbiter of my people. When they call, I answer. I serve.”

“What does that have to do with hair?” Ford asked plaintively.

Teyla pressed her palm over her heart. “My hair is my own. I do not share it except with those closest to my heart: my mother and my beloved-my betrothed.”

“So it’s not about sex?” Rodney asked.

“McKay!” John snapped.

“Major, I can and will answer your questions.” She raised an eyebrow. “It is a matter of intimacy, not simply sexual relationships. I would, however, recommend that you not ask Charin such bold questions, as she will answer them in great detail and then give you chores.”

Both Ford and Rodney nodded in fervent agreement.

“Questions are always good,” John blurted. “You know, because…”

“How can we learn if we do not question?” Teyla’s lip curled in the slightest of smiles. “I would hope also that if I misstep in matters of your cultures that we can talk and gain understanding?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ford said eagerly. “I guess we don’t have anything like that, though.”

John shut his eyes, not wanting to see Teyla go in for the kill -- sometimes learning was a painful process, but he didn’t have to watch.

“Can you,” Teyla said brightly, “explain why you are circumcised and Rodney is not?”

 _Fin_


End file.
